His Girl
by delilahbelle
Summary: He has her and him, and she has memories and questions. DE, season 8.


Author's Note: I do have a new computer. And I am working on Dirty Surprise and To A Love Story Never Told. But mostly, I am writing very random sentences without being able to think of anything good. Honestly, I'm going through a funk right now, so I'm really sorry about the lack of updates and everything. I will get something up soon. Here's a random one-shot, and the only halfway decent thing I've been able to write. I can't take a mean review right now, so please be nice if you review. Constructive at the very least, please. Thank you.

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><p>She's denied it a million and one times, but the truth is still there, still branded across her heart. Everyone could read it, everyone but him (maybe he knew but he still asked her out) and <em>him<em> (he wasn't around to know, the loveable bastard) and her (God, she knew, she knew but she hated the truth), but everyone looked at her with that truth in their eyes.

It's a tattoo—it could fade but it would never be gone completely, not when it was burned onto her, etched there, the scar deep and long and thick.

If she flips open the book to her life story, the front page would not read: _Property of Donna Pinciotti_. It would read: _Property of Eric Forman_, because she was (_is_) his, whether she wanted to be or not. (And she wants to be, and she doesn't like it).

There was nothing inherently wrong with being his, but he wasn't hers, and she wasn't hers, not in the slightest, so how could she be his? How could she not own her own heart? She wouldn't have a problem with being his, if he was hers, if she was hers, if he was his. Independence and co-dependence all at once. Didn't they have that once upon a time? Weren't they able to lie in each other's arms and just be _happy? _Didn't he want to marry her, to grow old with her? Weren't they supposed to laugh at their fiftieth wedding anniversary and go something like, "Back then, we were so foolish and young, we made a lot of mistakes, and look where it got us—eternity with each other! So mind you behave!" And everyone would know they were joking because everyone could see in their eyes that they loved each other more than anything.

The second page of her life would be filled with his name, and every page after that, all the way to the end, because there can't possibly be another name, except for maybe (_maybe) _hers. His name would be dotted with hearts and knives and tear drops, all the things that defined them, all the love and the anger and the pain, but it would still be there, battered and smudged and a little messy but intact. There would be the little cracks they can't fix, but they can step over, and the rivers that they built bridges upon, so they can still be with each other, no matter what life throws their way, no matter what they throw at each other.

Whatever they throw at each other, whatever gets thrown at them, there should still be tangled sheets and harsh words and laughter and kisses and jokes... There should still be his comic books thrown around her room, he should be waking up asking if she was Leia, and she should still be rolling her eyes at him for that. She should still have a stash of her clothes at his house, and he at hers, hidden underneath layers of things no one would dare look through. He should still be climbing through her bedroom window, hushing her as he kissed her, reminding her not to wake her father, because they really didn't want a repeat of Bob barging in on them with a baseball bat. They should be planning a wedding, or a future of some sort, going off to college together or taking a trip or sneaking away to some cheap motel in the Dells just so they have some time alone. She should be eating popcorn and watching television with her head on his shoulder and his fingers brushing her hair back. She should still be falling asleep with his arm around her, his breathing deep and slow against her ear, the beat of his heart steady, matching hers.

She should still be his and hers, and he should still be hers and his, but she is his and only his, and he is his and only his, and it's just so goddamn unfair that he should have both of them. It's like she baked a cake to share and he had his half then stole hers when she wasn't looking, small pieces disappearing little by little, until she turns back around and finds the plate empty. And she knows it wasn't her that had the pieces, it was him, because she wouldn't have forgotten, and anyway, there's still the evidence in the way it's not on her lips.

She wonders what the last page of her life would look like. Would he be with her as she died, or would she be going to him? Or would it be someone else entirely (someone whose face and mannerisms and smiles is exactly like Eric's)? Or would she be all alone, with a house full of cats and scribbled musings? Would she still feel the pain of the tattoo, still feel the needle against her skin, still see the ink staining her skin? Or would she be calm and free, the scars healed and faded with time, a childhood story that she could look back at with nostalgia and not heart crushing agony?

Or will she just lay here, silent and suffocating, until the burden becomes too much? Until that ache in her lungs and heart and soul decides it can't wait any longer?

Or will she have the energy, the desire, the _strength _to just stand up and stumble through until she's reclaimed the pieces of her heart (or his) so she can actually be okay again and not just saying it for the sake of those watching her, reading her, and ignoring the truth for her own sake?

If the pages of her life were open before her, they would tell her what her next steps will be, but the pages aren't open, and they will never truly be open, and all she can do is take a breath when there are none to take and take a step when there is nowhere to go. And all she can do (all she does) is hope that it will him back to her.


End file.
